


To The Edge of The Earth

by JurassicParkour



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff is coming, Gen, Hope you like, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 07:07:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6228649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JurassicParkour/pseuds/JurassicParkour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Still bad at summaries, here we go.<br/>Let's just say, the world is about to take a turn. Not just for one person, but for everyone. Some will stumbe and fall, others will stand up and fight gravity. (Or stand down and fight gravity ha)</p>
            </blockquote>





	To The Edge of The Earth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VeryImportantDemon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeryImportantDemon/gifts).



> Alright, hope everyone likes it.  
> Warning: later chapters can make you spontaneously combust

The worst things about a fight with a family member are the events that take place afterward. The moments filled with tension and the perfect sadness to be known. The doubt in the back of one's mind about love, about life, even of death itself. The striving to love but also the fear of it. These fights bring darkened thoughts, clouded thoughts and discourage love's influence on the mind. Love does have every influence, the very lives of everyone around a person.  
So there in a clouded state of thinking the two men stand, in opposition, in dispute. The detective inspector and the British government, locked in a gruesome fight of brute words.  
Lestrade stared head on, as if challenging, into the arrogant stance of Mycroft, his air chilly. Words flung across the room, leaving dents and scars in the irreparable heart.  
"You're never here! You are cold and distant the rest of the time!" Greg yelled, his feet wide apart and arms flying about.  
"When I'm not with you, I'm dealing with your division in Scotland Yard. I'm dealing with your men's failures and trying to sort them out–properly," Mycroft replied casually. "So it's my fault now?! You're supposed to help me! You're supposed to give Scotland Yard valuable information! Not take over!"  
"Then get out to the field yourself and analyze the evidence. I've seen you standing around 'supervising' while on important cases. What are you really Lestrade? You're a coward. A dog without a bite or bark," the elder Holmes raised his chin a millimeter higher, becoming an icy statue of disgust and arrogance. Greg took a step back. This was his chance. This was the one chance to step away and let things be until all harsh feelings eroded away due to time. "You're a demon, Holmes. I can't believe I ever thought you could change for me. You may have a brilliant mind, but your heart is long gone. I'm finished with you. I can't deal with you anymore," Greg slammed the front door after snatching a bottle of Smirnoff off the rack.

 

*********

 

"...He had his intestines ripped out. Looked like the killer used his teeth to tear the skin. No fingerprints, no surviving DNA. This guy's been dead over 7 hours I'd say," the detective inspector said, hovering above the dead male. A dark, curly-topped head crouched, scouring over the body almost like an animal. It wasn't an odd sight, seeing a tall, thin man sweeping over a crime scene nowadays. Sherlock Holmes peered into what was left of the man's intestinal regions. John's hands, covered in both latex and blood, swept over the gaping wound. "Can't get a definite jaw imprint, the guy was applying pressure everywhere, the killer cleaned up... Alfred Wess after the actual killing. No trace of prints or saliva either. This is a weird one, Sherlock,"Lestrade said, still a tad wary of the duo before him. The lithe man stood, still looking over the mutilated body. "Mycroft is unusually outspoken about you lately. He's...not himself," he said, not meeting the grey haired man's eyes. Greg shuffled on his feet a bit, fumbling with a pen in his pocket. "You had a fight. A bad fight," Sherlock answered his own form of question. "Yeah... He shouldn't be the one sulking around. Least he still lives in the flat. I'm-"  
"Living with your grandmother. She smokes but not enough that it could stain her precious walls. Usually does it outside and..." Sherlock was cut off by a glare from John. "Nevermind." Greg threw his hands up in frustration, a long sigh escaping his lips.

 

*****

 

The detective inspector made his way to his grandmother's on foot, his posture low and feet dragging on the ground. He felt as horrible as he looked. Mostly because he might or might not have had a bit too much to drink. The streetlights cast an orange glow every few meters, illuminating a pathway. Even as a drunk, Greg kept some of his head about him, watching every alley way like it was an exhibit in a zoo. Mugging was common where his grandmother lived, that, he figured, is where she got all her cigarettes.  
Lestrade had about 5 minutes to go, coming across a fork in the road, a park in the middle, he turned left. Out of the corner of his eye, something darted past. He turned slightly, but continued on. Bed sounded great right about then. In a second, he was on the ground, tasting his own blood from his nose on the asphalt. Damn, he thought. He was turned over, a cloth pressed to his bleeding nose and mouth. Lestrade struggled, finding his arms to be pinned by knees. Nononono Mycroft. Blackness clouded his vision, every sense leaving him.

 

Greg Lestrade was terrified.


End file.
